


Camp Life

by Semyaza



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-21 16:23:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12461475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Semyaza/pseuds/Semyaza
Summary: In 2008, one of my socks signed up for a challenge at the LJ community 'drabble123' -- twenty double drabbles with the pairing Holmes/Watson. He -- my sock, that is -- posted a solitary instalment of what I would have to call 'Peregrinations in Victorian Sexology' and promptly lost interest. Since the series wasn't intended to be comprehensible to anyone else I had two readers (as far as I know). Well, my sock reappeared with a second double drabble and somewhere between the two Watson had developed another source of income.  The prompt for this one was 'Out'.Warning: These were meant for my own amusement. I wouldn't bother if I were you.





	Camp Life

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: This won't make any sense unless the reader is familiar with _Teleny_ and its writing/publication history. I refuse to give Watson a wife, so this takes place shortly before 'The Final Problem'. As for Watson's wound -- it might have been almost anywhere.

" _The Reverse of the Medal_ ," said Holmes, pointing a thin finger at the page in front of him. "Where did you find this manuscript, Doctor?"

"In Coventry Street," I answered uneasily. "I was given it in mistake for the _Autobiography and Reminiscences of Sir Douglas Forsyth_. Imagine my feelings when I cut the string and unwrapped the brown paper."

"Indeed." Holmes tossed down the bundle of loose pages. "They must have been short-lived, however. The ink is fresh and the handwriting extraordinarily like that of a certain physician of my acquaintance."

The thermometer stood at 82 in our sitting-room but a sudden chill assailed me.

"My cousin accompanied Sir Douglas on his second mission to Kashgar," I said, the jezail bullet in my leg throbbing impatiently as a result of the morning's ramble from Baker-street to Leicester Square. "His account of the Pamirs --

"My dear Watson," interrupted Holmes. "You must leave off this reckless scribbling. _The ladies had begun to suspect that our excessive friendship was of too loving a nature?_ You would know best, of course -- your experience of women spans three continents -- but I should hate to be described as an _Angel of Sodom_ from London to Kabul."


End file.
